


Pastoral Sonata

by kuutar (teapertti)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 11:18:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2619857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teapertti/pseuds/kuutar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost every night there was a boy who would come to Club Flamingo to listen to the jazz music. Jean never saw him dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pastoral Sonata

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Pastoraalisonaatti](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2202852) by [teapertti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teapertti/pseuds/teapertti). 



> This is rather humiliating to confess, but the similarities to Kjell Westö book that won the most important literary prize of our home country [Finland] are not entirely occasional. Don't tell Kjell, or if you do, please convince him that my fic is wholly non-profit. (This is a translation of the original Author Notes. See notes on the translation in the end.)

The boy with bobcut hair – or could one already call him a man? – had caught Jean's attention on the first night he had played on the stage of Club Flamingo with his band. There had been a lot of people present back then and it was not like said boy had done anything to make himself stand out. On the contrary, he had sat in the remotest seat of a corner table where the dim lights of the hall had barely reached his face. Despite all that, his golden hair and thoughtful face had shone through the crowd of people in a very special way on that night as well as all the other nights he had graced the place with his presence.

Club Flamingo was known as the favorite hangout of the upper class, a place for wealthy heirs and rich businessmen to go. Thus it was a miracle itself that the jazz band that Jean played in had finally been engaged to perform as an entertainer for three months in the night shows of the restaurant. Sure, they knew that they were good: they had been formerly taught by a real jazz bassist from the other side of the Atlantic, named Martin Rogers, and he had been able to make their music sound authentic, as if it had been picked up from the smoky clubs of New Orleans. But luck had also been on their side, for it must have been partly a coincidence that in spring the owner of the club, Mr. Leonhart, had given several bands a chance to perform for one night in the club in order for him to find the suitable performer for the summer. His stony-faced daughter, Annie, had been among the audience the night Jean had played with his band mates. During the third song the maiden had stood up and joined the company of the dancing and cheering people. She had danced and danced, and even if she had tried hard to conceal her excitement, one could tell from the glow in her face that she was enjoying herself.

And so with the assistance of Miss Annie Leonhart, The Red Velvet Orchestra had been engaged as the main act of Club Flamingo, and that would lead Jean, who was from humble origins, to get caught up in events that he had never experienced before – and would probably never experience again. Even on the first night when he had stepped on the stage, he had halted for a moment to marvel at the people who had come to see them; the fine suits men wore and their valuable pocket watches and the women wearing knee-length dresses that glittered alongside the cut-glass chandeliers. Many of the local ladies had cut their hair so short it barely reached the nape of their neck and around their heads they wore ornate headbands decorated with feathers. Their behavior was flighty and reckless.

But all of these wondrous things had dimmed in his eyes as he had laid his gaze to Armin Arlert, the son of the paper factory owner who sat in the shadows, and never danced to the jazz even though he came to listen to them almost every night. In the beginning he had naturally been just one very beautiful and strangely heavy-hearted face among others, but when the fame of the band grew and people came in rising numbers to hear them play (wanting to know what the locals were murmuring about when they were talking about "The Flamingo boys") the rich young folk, brimming with curiosity and thirst for life, asked the musicians to come to sit in their tables. They could listen for hours to the stories that the musicians told them (whether they were actually true or not), especially those told by the band's pianist Connie "Merryweather" Springer, for he had traveled a lot in Europe and all the way to America, and in any case he could tell fun and entertaining stories. Jean also told of some incidents that had happened during his short life and so on , but after he noticed that those kinds of things didn't interest the seemingly melancholic Mr. Arlert, he soon quit telling them and focused on observing the people swarming around himself.

Usually when he took a seat among the guests after a gig, Jean chose the most remote corner table; the same one where Armin always sat. The others that gathered around the table were the same kind of people as him. Their grandparents and great-grandparents had made their fortune after the Industrial Revolution and now the offspring was here killing their boredom with music and alcohol while really understanding pretty much nothing about the world. Clearly the loudest person at the table was Eren Yeager, a politically aware young fellow who, night after night, went on about the unrest caused by Germany and things like that. Yeager was a Scot, and even though he disdained his roots and tried to make his speech sound like the upper class accent that his friends spoke, but when he got heated his Scottish accent would still slip through.

Often enough the group was also met by the Ackerman siblings. Their family was immensely rich, but even luxurious clothes and jewelry, as well as calm appearance, could not entirely hide the dispiritedness that could be perceived in their faces; it was like a grim creature that lived inside them. In Jean's mind the whole being of Mikasa and Levi Ackerman was something of a reminder of the fact that this joyful decade was fleeting. Everything was fleeting, and ahead in time something great and unknown was waiting, something tremendous and fascinating. The spirit of the times was like that, and in Germany new bombers were already being made while the king of England could only dream about such aircrafts. Mr. Hoover and Mr. Braun were also in their company, as well as others that talked about politics like they were experienced men of the world, but in reality they hadn't even reached their twenties and they didn't really comprehend much about this life.

Armin Arlert didn't talk about politics. When Eren and Levi or Reiner Braun immersed themselves in debating about the development of the Soviet Union or something of the sort, his eyes became filled with boredom and he spent his time following other people's doings. It wasn't like he didn't understand what they were talking about: Jean had engaged a conversation with him several times and noticed immediately that he was very intelligent and educated, much more so than those young men who pretended that they knew everything. When he had incidentally inquired to Armin why politics didn't kindle his interests, he had looked at Jean with a strange haze in his eyes and said:  
"I can't decide what the king or the communists or the Germans will do. Why quarrel when things will happen despite it all?" In Jean's opinion, his words had the ring of truth in them, but Eren Yeager and the others probably just chose to not care about it.

After spending more time at said table, Jean also learned why Armin never danced. He suffered from severe epilepsy and he feared that all kind of uncontrolled movement could further the risk of having a fit. His parents were restless, as they didn't have other children and they thought Armin should spend his days resting inside, as he had done for the most of his childhood years. But now he left the house to go outside almost every night, regardless of his parents' objections. "For if I don't live now, then when should I?" he had said, and something had flashed in his eyes, perhaps determination or defiance; but it had disappeared as fast as it had arisen. However, even when he had emerged from the dimness of his room he was seemingly pale and powerless, as if the wonderful world had nothing magnificent left to offer him.

Jean noticed soon that his concentration on the stage had started to have tentativeness in it. His fingers on the trumpet shivered and he glanced continuously to the corner table in order to see if Armin was watching him play. Even his band mates nagged at him because of his unbalanced performance. One evening there was an especially large number of people gathered to the club, all the seats were occupied and even the walk of the guests was like a dance, and in the air shimmered a kind of expectation, something that Jean couldn't fully grasp. He saw Armin sitting in the place he always did, a glass placed in front of him and indifference swelling in his eyes. Eren Yeager had bent down to talk to him, his eyes flitted over Jean, and he could guess that Yeager was, again, making fun of the London accent he and his band mates possessed. When it came time to rise to the stage, Jean took his trumpet and caressed its valves. As he closed his eyes he thought how they felt a bit like a ribcage in his hands, like Armin's delicate, narrow ribs. The thought made him heat up, yet it gave his playing a hint of passion that couldn't even be heard with ears, but that only the soul could sense. And people let the music lead themselves, they danced and frolicked, everyone else except the epileptic boy. But when Jean let his stare wander to Armin yet again, he suddenly raised his head from the edge of the table and looked at him, and in his eyes there was The Gaze, frenzied and restless like that of a colt; it pierced through Jean's heart and for a moment he played the song all wrong, the notes disappeared from his reach to the chaos of time and space. He managed to pull himself together and return to the rhythm. Armin had averted his eyes, he talked to Bertolt Hoover and looked bored. The chandeliers dazzled the eyes.

Week by week the summer passed, and week by week Armin Arlert and his secrets gnawed at Jean's heart. He had quickly gotten tired with all of the overflowing admiration he received (even though he wouldn't show that to the outside), and it pleased him that Armin didn't show his interest to others than those who really deserved it. On many evenings he sat down to the corner table and listened when the others talked about politics and the economy, but to Jean's ears they sounded like idle, meaningless words. He was just a working-class man who earned his living from music, he really hadn't received much schooling. But when Armin explained something, he listened silently and attentively, his throat felt tight when the boy took off his bowtie and opened the two top buttons from his shirt. They were friends, but between them there stood Armin's apathy and Jean's feelings like a cold wall that prevented them from truly encountering each other.

The Ackerman family had the habit of holding a party to celebrate the end of summer in their villa in Brighton, and to his surprise Jean was also invited there as a friend of the family's children. The older generation did not have a liking for jazz, but apparently Mr. and Mrs. Ackerman trusted the judgment of their children well enough to grant the band an opportunity to join in. Jean had never been in a place like that: the multi-story building had an interminable amount of rooms, each one more gorgeously decorated than the next. The flower arrangements in the garden still bloomed with the last brilliance of the summer, and in the yard there was also a huge, well-managed tennis court. Because Jean had arrived in the noon, he had the chance to observe the tennis match where the Ackerman siblings played against Eren and Armin. Apparently tennis was a sport graceful and controlled enough so that it was seen suitable for the latter, despite his illness. All four of them were dressed in white polo shirts, miss Ackerman was sporting white skirt and knee-high socks and Armin had decorated his head with a white headband, which looked rather comical with his hairstyle.

The racquet looked enormous in Armin's slender hand as he prepared himself for the opening strike, the golden hair streaming out in the wind. It became obvious soon enough that the set up wasn't equally matched: Armin did have an eye for the game and his strikes were clever and deliberated, but his physical strength was not enough for the exertions needed. There was power in Eren Yeager's strikes, but tennis as a game didn't suit his hot-tempered personality at all, so as he got agitated his passes flied around in all directions. However, the Ackerman siblings played by the book; each one of their movements and steps seemed well-considered. They didn't make foolish mistakes or hit stray balls and it looked to an outsider as if even their minds worked in some strange kind of resonance. Jean watched as Eren's game turned more careless minute by minute. He swore under his breath and hit the ball impetuously. But Armin retained his calmness, seemingly having already accepted that the match was lost.

After the game was finished, Eren threw his racquet to the ground and marched inside. Armin picked up his partner's racquet and then went to shake Levi and Mikasa's hands, he smiled shyly and took the racquets with him. The match was obviously just for fun and Eren surely would forget the bitter loss in half an hour, but still there was something heart-warming in Armin's humble gesture. Sports were obviously good for him, because after the match Armin looked more lively than he had in ages and he seemed vivacious as he socialized with the other guests, yet acted visibly restrained like usual. Jean tried to stay in his vicinity, but at one point he had to move aside as Mikasa Ackerman had asked The Red Velvet Orchestra to perform in the garden, in some more remote part so that their old-fashioned parents or parents' friends wouldn't arrive to see the place in vast numbers. The show time was at the point of the night that Jean seriously doubted the level of the performance from him and his band mates, but they still agreed, as it was no way official and they were indeed very thankful that they had been invited along. 

Yet Jean soon noticed that Armin hadn't come to listen them play. Many of the younger guests of the party had delightfully arrived to watch them and he saw Annie Leonhart's stern gaze among the audience. Jean didn't want to let Armin's absence bother him, but it still did. The sun went down and one could already sense the coolness of fall in the park as jazz sounded among the trees. They played mainly just peaceful melodies as that was how this evening felt, like a drowsy and unhurried memory of the summer. Suddenly someone rushed from the inside, and Reiner Braun and Bertolt Hoover ran with the woman to the place where she had arrived. When they finally returned, they were carrying poor Armin on a stretcher. He was shivering and writhing, his eyes were glassy and there was a bit of foam coming from his mouth. Jean couldn't help it, his playing stopped and he lowered the trumpet away from his lips. It was naturally just one of Armin's fits, but even in that condition there was something in him that attracted Jean's attention and filled his heart with longing. 

Bertolt and Reiner took Armin with them and the evening went on as before. Jean sat down among the Flamingo regulars and acted like they were good friends to him. Eren was visibly drunk and he couldn't or didn't bother to imitate the speech of his friends from the south, instead he was explaining something in a broad Glasgow dialect. Jean knew his talking had something to do with the rise of the working class, and he considered saying something against it but he couldn't really concentrate on his speech and decided not to care about Eren. In a way, he admired the lifestyle of the upper class; cut-glass chandeliers and motor cars and mahogany furniture. But on the other hand, as he spent time with them, he also could see their superficiality and complacency and blindness. Even if he himself had been granted with something that could lead him away from the working class life and the smoky smell of the factories, he would never forget where he came from.

The sun had disappeared hours ago and people were beginning to become tired. Jean was sitting in some corner and trying to stay quiet, though really it didn't demand much effort. He had noticed that his way of speaking agitated many of the guests, though it wasn't a surprise, as they associated it with troublemakers and criminals. Finally he noticed Reiner Braun and shuffled along to ask him something. After getting a reply he started to wander towards the eastern part of the villa. The spiral staircase looked a bit risky to Jean's unfocused eyes, but he grabbed the handrail bravely and started climbing upstairs. He didn't run into other guests and he noticed some of the furniture was covered with cloths in this side of the building. When he began to climb to the third floor, he suddenly heard the quiet sound of a piano. If he had known anything more about classical music, he would've identified the piece as Beethoven's Pastoral Sonata. He could've even perhaps heard that the harmonies of the music were off at times. But Jean had never played classical music, his music was something else completely, and so the piece sounded to him like nothing more than pleasant chiming of the piano. 

He almost stumbled on someone's shoes as he entered the room where the sound of piano was coming from. The room was almost dark and only the moonlight coming from the window was illuminating the sight ahead of Jean. In front of a grand piano stooped a small figure that was pressing the keys concentratedly. As Jean's eyes got used to the dimness, he recognized the person playing the piano as Armin, who had taken off his jacket and shoes. He didn't seem to pay any attention to Jean, continuing with his trance-like playing. It was not the playing of a young piano student; he wasn't seated upright with fingers splayed in a correct way, instead he played like he had been bewitched, like the sound of the piano was the sole thing that kept him tied to this life.

Jean didn't move away from the doorway, he just stared at Armin's tense body and felt his own breath turning heavier and the sweat breaking out on his skin. He wished that he could be that piano into which Armin laid his passion and all of the hidden wants and wishes that he was harboring in his fragile body. The piece grew more oppressive, its melody was beautiful but the pressure on the keys was hard and sharp. The music came out of the instrument quietly but still managed to fill the ears. Finally the playing ended, and Armin dropped his hands to the seat and stared at the white keys of the antique grand piano. Somehow he looked even smaller than before, like he had given everything that was left of him in the form of the Beethoven sonata.

At last he rose up from his seat and turned to face Jean. Even though the light was scarce, Jean could see that his shirt was halfway open and among the fabric a strip of marble-white skin was showing. In his eyes Jean could once again see The Gaze, the one that made Jean, who was already unsteady on his feet, almost fall down to the floor. Armin didn't say anything, he just stared at the other. Between his eyebrows there was an odd wrinkle. Jean didn't speak either, he only listened to the sound of his own breath. He wanted to invite Armin to his arms and feel his delicate body against his own, he wanted to seize him and force him to the bedchamber behind the piano, he wished to take a step ahead and tell Armin that he had fallen in love with him, even when it would obviously be useless as he had to already know.

Finally Armin straightened up a little and then asked him:

"Did you like it?" The question echoed in Jean's head. He tried to lead his attention away from Armin's eyes that were blue as violets and full of the kind of fervor that superficial people could never attain.

"Sure I did," Jean managed to reply. Armin closed his eyes and opened them again, slowly and theatrically. 

"You're lying," he said then, all of sudden he looked like he wanted to spit into Jean's shoes, dirtying them beyond their already unclean state. "In your opinion classical music is tedious and old-fashioned and bourgeois, you play jazz yet you know it's going to die before any of you will ever become famous, and that's fine by me ! But I cannot play anything else other than piano sonatas, it is tedious but so am I and so is my life," Armin continued, he spoke fast in a low tone, as if the words were something he had been carrying inside him for a long time. Jean only stared at him; his head was hazy and he found it difficult to understand Armin's speech, especially because his eyes could tell so much more.

"Does it matter, then?" he finally managed to ask. For what did Armin care if he was tedious or not? That's how he was. Little did he care that Jean had sneaked in to listen to his playing, or that he lost the tennis match, or that Jean swore and spoke cockney in a way that it made other upperclassmen gasp. He didn't even seem to mind that Jean was visibly aroused, but Jean wanted to think that the reason was something other than his usual indifference.

"No, it doesn't matter," Armin replied and turned his gaze towards the window, from where the moonlight filtered in through the glass, batheing the lacquered lid of the grand piano in its light. When he looked back at Jean, all of the fervor had been doused; the eyes were again calm and serene. The light cast itself upon his barley hair and Jean tried not to think about how it would feel to bury his face in those locks that must feel soft and smell good. Finally Armin took a couple of steps forward and raised his pale hand, placing it on Jean's cheek momentarily.

"You've drank too much, please get some rest," he said softly. Jean felt the coldness of his fingers as they stayed a moment too long on his skin, or so he wanted to imagine.

"Right," he managed to answer as the fingers departed from his cheek. All of a sudden, everything felt a bit clearer, his thought clarified and after confusedly glancing once more at Armin he turned around and walked out of the room. Looking back, he saw that Armin had followed him, half of his face was visible from the gap of the door, and in his gaze flashed The Something. Then the door closed, standing as a wall between the two of them, just like money and accent and tennis and music and illnesses and love and everything else in this world.

As time went on, Jean noticed that his thoughts returned to that fleeting touch on his cheek. He didn't forget it when the joyful decade ended and was replaced by the depression, or when epilepsy led Armin Arlert to the darkness of his own grave, or when Hitler marched to Poland and Europe was torn into pieces and rationing affected both the rich and the poor and Eren Yeager was killed in the bombings of London. The moment returned to his mind when he sat in a room filled by Americans and Frenchmen and looked at his wounded arm that would never play the trumpet again. There it was, reminding him that amongst this absurdity, in this world that had became insane, there still were things that mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost I want to express my gratitude to the user Aespren who kindly offered to edit my translation. She did excellent job guiding me through the dangers of semicolons and advising with correct dialogue paragraphing and all that jazz. Without her this translation might have never been done or it would at least be much less pleasant to read.
> 
> The translation has been slightly altered from the original text. Nothing too big, really. Thank you for reading!


End file.
